


Forlorn Hope

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters - Well-handled emotions, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Tear-jerker, Poetry, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir's Charge</p><p>MITHRIL AWARD 2005 - runner-up, best poetry - long form<br/>MEFAwards 2005 - Dol Amroth Award - Gondor,  poetry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forlorn Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

We spoke not, and none spoke to us,   
As if to speak would break a spell.   
Allowing fear to overflow,   
A dreadful dam-burst of terror.   
None watching dared to wish us well,   
It would have seemed a hope misplaced.   
Many murmured a benison,   
And strewed our path with herbs of grace.   
We focussed not on moving lips,   
Lest our own take on a quiver,   
Unbecoming Gondor's metal.   
We had become steel and iron.   
All our soft longings, love, and hope,   
Were leached away by that silence.   
Yet what remained was fortitude.   
If by the blades of our bodies   
We could defend the White City – then let it be so.   
We changed,   
From warm, fleshly men to weapons.   
Tempered steel scabbarded in ice.   
Soon to be wreathed not with flowers,   
But necklace and crown of rubies.   
We, who would not be sheathed again,   
Unless it was in the soft earth Of our moon-drenched Ithilien.   
We rode forth then in that silence,   
Forth to meet the coming thunder.


End file.
